


Too Good

by quartetship



Series: ADS Side Pieces [9]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: ADS Side Pieces, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, commission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4726850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[In the safety of his mind, Marco could have exactly what he wanted.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sthom506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sthom506/gifts).



> Written on commission for the lovely Shawn, aka [pineapplebutt506](http://pineapplebutt506.tumblr.com/), this is the Marco's POV partner piece to ['No Big Deal'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3758755), both canon compliant side pieces from the universe of ['A Different Song'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2300711/chapters/5060960).
> 
> Please enjoy, friends! :)
> 
> \--

The fall of silence was typically a peaceful occurrence in the dorm room Marco shared with Jean. It marked the end of a day spent doing what he loved, whether that was working on something for the theatre or just lingering in the presence of his roommate. Marco _loved_ being in their shared space, maybe even more than he was willing to admit. It was home, in a way nowhere else had ever been. It was quiet and relaxed. It was perfectly peaceful.

Usually, anyway.

_Usually,_ Jean was up and about, moving around and in and out of the room until the last few hours of the night, which he always seemed to reserve, just for Marco. But with Jean injured, the placid pace of evening was spread out over the course of entire days, and there was a restlessness that had begun to replace the usual calmness in the air. Jean was _dying_ to be back on his feet, visibly pouting about the fact that he couldn't – and about the fact that much of his care had fallen to Marco.

Marco tried not to take it personally. After all, it wasn't that Jean minded being in his presence. If anything, that seemed to be one of the few sources of comfort he had, while recuperating. It was just having to be cared for, coddled and _carried_ that bothered Jean; he made sure to grumble about it on a near hourly basis. Marco understood his frustration, but it didn't make it sting any less, especially when he was trying so hard to keep secret the thrill he felt at every now-necessary opportunity he had to let his hands linger on his best friend’s body.

He was _enjoying_ taking care of Jean.

Of course he hated that Jean was injured. But there was a strangely satisfying feeling Marco got from being able to do things for Jean, to help him and be openly affectionate toward him without as much fear of reproach. At first, he told himself it was pride, knowing he was doing right by someone he cared about. Then he picked him up, held him in his arms and carried him across the room, and all attempts at pretending he was merely proud of his own good deeds were rendered pointless. The way heat pooled low in his stomach at the sight of Jean’s ass in the soft pants he'd lent him only made it worse, more apparent; Marco was in for a rough couple of weeks.

So when the quiet of late evening finally fell over the dark room that night, Marco was glad for it. He made an effort to keep his thoughts somewhere halfway respectable, lacing his fingers behind his head beneath the pillow he rested on. Staring at the ceiling in the dark, he let his eyes close, and breathed deep and even, hoping sleep would find him quickly. But only a few moments after he'd begun his search for it, Jean began to fidget on the other side of the room, and the peace Marco was looking for began to chip away.

At first it seemed innocent enough. Quiet huffing could be heard as Jean shifted beneath his blankets, no doubt struggling to find comfort with the boot-like cast on his ankle hindering him. For a moment Marco considered asking him if there was anything he needed, any way he could be of help, but silence returned quickly, and he let the question remain unasked as Jean seemed to settle down again. They both needed sleep, after all.

Jean didn't go to sleep, though. It was soon fairly obvious that his movements weren't those of someone half awake and looking for the best way to nod off again. His breath was shallow and sharp, and Marco could hear the faint drag of his hands over his body as be bunched clothing and blankets out of his way. When a low, quiet whine escaped him, apparently muffled by something, any doubts Marco might have had as to what was going on were dispelled.

Jean was touching himself.

Marco swallowed hard and willed himself not to move, panic setting in as he weighed his options.

He could say something. If he pretended he hadn't noticed, and just cleared his throat or mumbled Jean’s name, maybe Jean would stop. Then things wouldn't be awkward, or at least no more than they already were in that moment. But when his voice stuck in his throat, Marco realized something that made him sweat; he didn't _want_ Jean to stop.

If he was honest with himself, the tiny sounds Jean was making were throwing Marco’s heart around in his chest, railing it against his rib cage with every one of Jean’s short, stuttered breaths. Just suspecting – _knowing_ – that Jean was losing himself to pleasure a few feet away made Marco’s head spin, made everything fuzzy and too hard to focus on.

Everything except Jean.

What was he thinking about? It was a question Marco had no business knowing the answer to, and yet one he couldn't dismiss from his mind. Jean was probably thinking of that girl he liked, the one he'd told Marco about, who he’d been hung up on for months. It was probably her that he was imagining, as he gasped and shifted sharply in his bed. Marco bit his lip and breathed as quietly as he could manage, cheeks beginning to burn as he listened.

The telling sound of skin against skin, sliding roughly as Jean thrust into his fist stole Marco’s breath entirely. He willed himself not to respond, tried to pretend he wasn't getting hard just _thinking_ about the way Jean must look, squirming in his bed, making every attempt at silence so as not to wake his roommate as he gave himself the release he needed. Marco couldn't fault him for that; he'd ducked into the shower more than a few times after hours to find relief when things got… _hard._ But poor Jean was bed bound.

And there Marco was, listening to him like a total creep.

But it was nearly impossible _not_ to. Even obviously trying to keep quiet, Jean was making the most beautiful little noises, whining just below the volume of a whisper, and just loud enough that it rung in Marco’s ears, and went right to his dick. His hips bucked upward of their own accord, shifting the rest of him after them under his blankets. He rolled over to face the wall to camouflage another subconscious jerk of his hips, rolling away from where Jean had by then gone silent and still, at the sound of him moving.

Part of Marco prayed that that would be the end of it, that Jean would stop unknowingly torturing him. Another, louder part of his mind cried out for more, though, hoping to hear exactly what Jean sounded like when he came. They weren't the kind of thoughts anyone should entertain about their best friend, but they were the kind that Marco couldn't keep at bay, when it came to Jean. When he heard the movement of Jean’s hands resume, he inhaled sharply, as quietly as he could, and held his breath as he listened.

It was wrong. Jean was just trying to get off, was assuming he was alone in some sense of the word, and had no idea that Marco was paying such close attention to every roll of his hips up from the squeaking bed frame. And Marco had no business letting his thoughts linger on what Jean would look like right then; he had a boyfriend of his own, though they were barely even speaking at that point. It was hard to care what Auruo or anyone else would think of him in that moment, though. Jean’s labored breathing was all Marco could hear, and his imagination was running away with the thought of his _own_ name falling from Jean’s lips in a hushed murmur.

Jean was the one chasing release, but Marco was lying just a few feet away, burning alive from the inside, out.

He couldn't do what he really wanted to. He couldn't match Jean’s movements with his own, couldn't let Jean know he was growing impatient with need just listening to the way he whined and whimpered. Marco couldn't wrap fingers around his own arousal, despite the way it was straining against the soft, giving fabric of his pants, aching for the same attention he could hear Jean giving himself. He couldn't get himself caught, risk having to explain just how much he was enjoying listening to Jean’s brainless, breathless muttering.

So he moved a hand down to cup himself, settling for only the slick glide of his thumb as he dipped it beneath his waistband and slid it back and forth over the head of his cock. He was already wet there, already beginning to soak a telltale spot into the fabric of his boxers; he closed his eyes and bit down hard on his lips as his mind offered the question of whether or not Jean was dripping just as much, making as much of a mess, with his fingers sliding through his own precome as he pleasured himself just a little more than an arm’s length away. Marco exhaled in a shaky sigh that he hoped was silent, and lost himself to fantasy.

In the safety of his mind, he could have exactly what he wanted.

He imagined Jean losing his grip on control, muffled mumbling giving way to desperate moans, colored with Marco's name. Jean would fluster and apologize, his mind offered, but Marco wouldn't let him for long. He would cross the room in a single move, land on Jean’s bed where he'd been so many times before, pulling away the covers and raking his gaze over Jean’s moonlit frame. Pants pushed down past his knees and shirt tugged up and out of the way of his dripping cock, Jean would look up at Marco – face flushed and slick with sweat – and nod, a dazed but deliberate show of consent. Of _need._

Marco knew how to take a cue, and that was one he definitely wouldn't miss.

Hooking fingers under the loose waistband of the pants he'd lent to Jean, he would tug them the rest of the way off, careful of Jean’s injured ankle. He would lavish that leg with kisses, all the way up Jean’s trembling thigh, dragging his lips from one side of Jean’s sharp hips to the other. Jean would curse and stammer, and Marco would respond with a confident chuckle that would leave Jean squirming beneath his gentle hold. In Marco’s mind, Jean’s need would match his own, and he wouldn't let it go unattended to.

Marco would take up where Jean had left off, wrapping fingers around his length and setting a teasingly slow pace, stroking him and watching the way his face changed with each touch. His mind offered that Jean’s dick would be as long and thin as the rest of his frame, a comfortable stretch for Marco’s jaw as he would duck down to take him into his mouth, taking his time with each pass of his tongue over the slick and sensitive head. The thought alone had Marco’s mouth watering, had him swallowing the way he imagined he might with a mouthful of Jean’s cock. He savaged his bottom lip between his teeth, faintly aware of the pain as he bit down hard to keep himself from groaning.

He wondered if Jean liked things messy, if he would be as satisfied with smearing his slickness across Marco’s face as Marco would be with the feeling of their mess dripping down over his lips, his chin, even his chest. Jean would probably moan for more, growl that he was getting close, but Marco couldn't let that be the end of things. Not when he was in control of the images that played across his mind’s eye. He envisioned himself pulling off of Jean’s cock with a last, lingering swipe of his tongue, quieting Jean’s whimper of protest by crawling up the bed and pulling Jean upright. He didn't have to do much imagining to create the feeling of kissing him; he already knew what Jean’s lips felt like on his own, had memorized the taste of him as their breath mingled and their mouths slid across one another.

Jean still believed that Marco didn't remember kissing him, but Marco could scarcely forget. A replay of that kiss weaved its way into his fantasy then, as he imagined it turned around, him settling in Jean’s lap instead of Jean into his. The look of shock on Jean’s face as Marco whispered a raspy request for a condom and lube would be enough to pull another laugh out of him, he wagered, Jean poorly feigning preparedness while failing to keep a grin from stretching across his face.

From there, the details began to muddle as Marco heard a breathy and ragged groan from across the room, Jean desperately trying to muffle himself as the mattress quietly squeaked beneath him. His breath was shallow and fast, and Marco worried that his own thundering heart would be audible amidst the quiet huffing of it. Marco rolled over further, hissing silently, his whole body tensing with terror when Jean’s noisy little movements came to a painfully quiet stop, again.

There was a moment of hesitation, a quiet shift of blankets as Jean waited for Marco to move again. He must have decided a moment later that Marco was still sufficiently asleep, because the soft sounds that had been pushing Marco to the boundaries of his sanity returned, and he turned his face to bite down on the pillowcase beneath him to stop himself from groaning at the way they affected him.

He was hard to the point of _aching,_ tenting his boxers so impressively that he might as well not be wearing them, gapping as they were from his hips. There was no way he could get the release he needed; touching himself was out of the question. Even as loud as Jean was being, as caught up as he was in whatever fantasies he was creating for himself, he seemed to hear every move Marco made, and in reality, getting caught with his hand down his pants in response to his roommate doing the same wasn't likely to play out well.

Marco hooked his thumb over the waistband of his pants and boxers, pulling them down just enough to expose the head of his cock, smearing another slick swipe of precome across the pad of his thumb as he did. He slid his thumb back up and over the head once, again, over and over – slowly – as he let himself return to the world of his fantasy.

In his mind, Jean would know what to do. He'd been with men before, after all. He would know to coat his finger generously in lubrication, how to tease Marco’s entrance until he was begging to sink down on to Jean’s fingers, to be worked open and spread wide, like Marco was just _sure_ Jean would know how to do. He hoped Jean would be quick with a condom, too, because even the _thought_ of riding Jean’s hands had Marco desperate for something more. Faced with the reality, he would probably have to squeeze his dick with a vice grip at the base, just to keep himself from coming at the searing pleasure of sliding onto Jean’s waiting cock.

It wouldn't take long. Marco knew himself well enough to know that if life ever handed him the chance to settle into Jean’s lap, legs wrapped around his waist while he rocked his hips to adjust to the stretch of Jean’s thick cock buried inside of him, he wouldn't make it more than a few minutes. But they'd be the best fucking few minutes of his life.

Using Jean's strong shoulders as leverage, Marco would raise his hips just enough to feel Jean move inside him, before dropping them to let Jean bottom out again. Every inch of skin where their bodies met would be a thing on fire, consumed by flame that seemed to spread from there until they were helpless to it, bodies sliding easier against one another in the wake of their sweat.

Marco could imagine the sounds Jean would make, groaning at the way Marco took him so eagerly, hands running dazedly up Marco’s sides and back down as he told him how fucking _perfect_ he looked doing it, how beautiful he was, spread out across Jean’s hips. With a gentle push, Marco would have him on his back again, better able to ride him the way he really wanted to. From there, he would make quick work of Jean’s wavering self-control.

Hands splayed across Jean’s chest, Marco would rock his hips with purpose, leaning forward just enough to allow Jean to grab bountiful handfuls of his ass. It would drive Jean crazy, push him close to his edge to feel the way Marco stretched around him, feel the wetness that was everywhere as hastily applied lubricant slicked their movements and made it all the easier for Marco to bounce on his cock. Before he could stop himself, he would be rolling his hips in time with Marco’s, meeting him thrust for thrust and _pounding_ his cock up into Marco as he squeezed helplessly at his hips. Marco would give Jean the reins in the last lap, allowing himself to be fucked, exactly the way both of them needed it.

And then Jean would hold him down, fingers digging pretty pink patterns into Marco’s thighs as he came hard inside of him, calling his name like they didn’t have to worry that they’d wake the neighbors.

In his dizzy daydreams, Marco could imagine the sound of his name falling from Jean’s lips as he gasped through the last throws of his orgasm, could almost _hear_ it, as if Jean were really murmuring it just a few feet away.

But that would've been a little too good to be true.

What he _did_ hear were the breathless whines of his best friend and roommate, muffled by a shirt still half in his mouth as he curled around himself, shuddering at his release. Marco imagined it was one much needed, and tried but failed to keep his mind from wondering just how good Jean was feeling, right at that moment. What did he look like up close, panting and flushed? What would his skin smell and taste like, slick with sweat, hot under Marco’s tongue as he kissed his way across Jean’s chest, up the side of his neck before capturing his trembling lips?

Marco’s mind wandered as he wondered; across the room, Jean groaned slightly and sat up slowly in bed. There was the soft rustling of blankets as Jean grunted like he was stretching to reach for something, usually a cue for Marco to offer assistance. But he didn't dare move, barely breathing as he listened. He couldn’t risk Jean knowing he was awake.

A moment later, one of Jean’s crutches rattled and creaked as he hauled himself out of bed, and it took every ounce of Marco’s self-discipline to ensure that he didn't roll over to watch him leave, make sure he was okay. Because as much as Marco loved the kinds of thoughts he'd been entertaining about Jean, he loved him as a person, even more. But Jean would have to care for himself, at least for the moment.

With the quiet sound of Jean shuffling down the hallway a fading echo, Marco let loose a ragged sigh, wrapping a hand firmly around his aching cock. He was already on fire, all over, every inch of him hot from the blush that rose over his entire body from listening to Jean bring himself to climax. Marco could still hear the muffled moans, still _see_ the visions of Jean beneath him in his mind that had been torturing him moments before.

He didn't have much time, but as hard as he was from enduring all of that, he wouldn't _need_ much.

Already stroking himself insistently, he ran his palm through the slickness that covered the head of his cock, using it to ease the slide of his hand around the rest of him as he thrust into his fist. It wasn't often that he was so rough with himself, but with next to no time and a need like dying man’s thirst, he fucked his hand with abandon, desperate to find his own release.

Letting himself imagine Jean inside of him again, Marco hissed behind clenched teeth, a little less careful to be quiet than he might have been if he was still accompanied in the dark, silent room. The way his hips rolled forward as his thighs tensed wrenched another gasping breath out of him, colored with Jean’s name in a way that would've undeniably betrayed his fantasies if anyone were there to hear it. He just need to come, needed to finish before Jean’s return to the room, but it wasn't enough.

He needed more of the Jean his mind had been giving him.

He needed Jean beneath him, one hand clawing desperately for purchase at the sheets around him, fisting and tugging hard as the other raked down Marco’s side, wordlessly urging him to move faster, drop his hips harder. In reality, Marco gasped as he imagined Jean babbling broken pleas and pretty praises that mingled with Marco’s name in a steady stream of pleasured panting.

As Marco’s hand moved with ever more fervor, his hips jerked in time as he began to lose his grip on control. Already shaking from the need he'd been stifling for so long that evening, he whimpered into the crook of his bent arm, muffling himself with it as he imagined the warmth of his own skin to be that of Jean’s, molten beneath his lips as his mind offered him a raspy rendition of Jean’s voice, growling.

_“Come for me, Marco.”_

And that was all it took.

Marco stuttered through a fractured moan of Jean’s name, muffled into his arm as he slammed himself backward onto his mattress, lying flat on his back as he came hard, ribbons of come spilling over his fingers and streaking his stomach, even reaching his heaving chest. His entire body shook, and he grinned, dazed, not yet ready to face reality.

One more second, beside the Jean in his dreams.

But a bare second was all he could allow himself.

Seizing a shirt that had been hanging at the bottom corner post of his bed between his toes, Marco flung it upward to his outstretched hand and grabbed it, artlessly toweling himself off and tossing it back toward the end of the bed, crumpled in such a way that he hoped wouldn't make its last use obvious. No sooner had he discarded it, than he heard the telltale uneven shuffle of Jean scooting back up the hall, all but dragging his injured foot as he attempted to be quiet in approaching the door.

With the turn of the knob, Marco rolled over onto his stomach, and heaved one last sigh before setting in to give his most convincing performance of a person asleep, complete with the obnoxious buzz of a snore. Hovering in the open doorway for a moment, Jean seemed to buy it, looking Marco over to search for signs of life before deciding he was safe, and dropping back into his bed for the evening.

A few minutes later, Jean was asleep.

Marco knew that the next day, they'd both go on with life as if nothing had happened. They'd both pretend it was no big deal, and it would never become something more. To assume anything else was to believe in something a little too good to be true.

\--

Many months after things had changed for Jean and Marco, after confessions and kisses and fumbling first times were fond memories behind them, Marco still thought about that night in their dorm room, from time to time.

He didn't need to fantasize, anymore; Jean was beside him in their shared bed, every night they were both at home, and incredible sex was very much a reality, when they had time for it. Still, something made Marco tense up a bit when he found himself hard, knowing Jean was asleep or busy beside him. A thrill, no longer there, perhaps? He wasn't sure. But one night while he was contemplating it, he glanced to his side and found Jean watching him, slowing stroking himself to hardness with an impish smirk on his face.

Marco blurted out a question he already knew the answer to before he could stop himself.

“Have you ever gotten off in the same room as me?”

Unfazed, Jean snorted with laughter, shrugging. “Pretty regularly, yeah. Usually you're the one _getting_ me off, remember?”

Shaking his head, Marco clarified, already too curious to keep quiet. “No, I mean… _Before_ we were together. D-did you ever do that? In the dorm room?”

Jean’s lazy, confident grin faltered immediately, melting into something of a tight, uneven grimace as he stared back at Marco with ever widening eyes. His teeth slid over his bottom lip, biting down and grinding in place as he slowly inhaled, nodding.

“I, uh. Yeah, I think I did. Like one time, maybe?” Jean was notably paler than he had been a moment before, a fist tightly wound in blankets that he'd pulled up to cover himself to the hip. He shrugged, making every attempt at saving himself from the whirlpool of embarrassment that the conversation already was. “But you were asleep, and it wasn't a big--”

“I wasn't, though.”

The words seemed to hit Jean like a shove to the chest, knocking him breathless, confusing him further. He didn't reply. Marco swallowed and continued, his face on fire.

“I _heard_ you, one time. When you were hurt, from your ankle injury. I… heard you getting yourself off.”

Jean blinked, mouth falling open. “And you… You _listened_ the whole time?”

Nodding Marco bit his lips together and winced before breathing, “Yeah?”

“Oh my god, Marco!” Jean sat bolt upright, then, and Marco sank under his own portion of blankets in response, boiling with embarrassment and guilt brought rippling back to the surface of his mind.

“I know, I know, I'm sorry!” He mumbled. “I shouldn't have listened, and maybe I should've _said_ something, but I didn't know what to do, and then you got really into it, and I couldn't…”

Marco trailed off as he wriggled fingertips into the spaces between the blankets in his hands, waiting for Jean to finally chastise him for something that he could have let go, undiscussed and undisclosed. But to his surprise, Jean burst into a round of roaring laughter, rolling on top of him and pressing his forehead to Marco’s chest as he tried to calm himself down enough to breathe again.

Peeking up at Marco, Jean crossed his arms, bringing his chin to rest on them. When Marco raised an eyebrow, Jean shook his head, as best he could, mostly glued to Marco. He lifted his thumb to wipe at the corner of his eye, still huffing quietly with laughter.

“Oh god, Marco. If you had any idea – this is _so_ fucking embarrassing, but – do you know what I was _thinking_ about, that night?”

Marco shook his head. Jean groaned, but it ended with another snort of laughter.

_“You!_ I was thinking about how much I wanted you.” It sounded almost romantic, as he breathed the words like a confession. But then his grin from a few moments before returned, and he sank his fingertips into Marco’s sides, humming. “Pretty sure I was actually imagining you fucking me in my car, if memory serves.”

“Jesus Christ,” Marco muttered, eyes shuttering closed for lack of a better way to hide his face. Jean chuckled, leaning up to nose against his chin.

“You _listened_ to me jerk it, didn't you? God, Marco – did _you?_ If I would've known you were listening--”

“You would've thrown something at me and never spoken to me again,” Marco grumbled, “Or at least made fun of me for the rest of my life.”

Jean shrugged. “Well if we’d known _then_ what we know _now,_ I wouldn't have.” He crawled up the bed, settling on Marco’s hips as his hands came to rest on either side of Marco’s head, arms bending just enough that he could press a sweet, slow kiss to Marco’s lips before dragging his mouth over to whisper in his ear. “I'd have asked you to make good on what I was thinkin’ about.”

“Kinda wish I'd known that,” Marco admitted, turning his head to capture Jean’s lips again, murmuring against them, “Might have taken you up on that offer.”

Jean shivered, and they laughed into each other’s kiss, arms winding and hands roaming as they relaxed against one another. It was the unhurried pace of their usual time together, when they had their way about it. No rush, no worries; just repeated reminders that they really were there, in each other’s arms, in love and at peace, at least.

“Just another thing we can add to the list of things we screwed up, I guess.” Jean sighed, tilting his face up to nip at the two day old fuzz of Marco’s unshaven, between-roles jawline. “Maybe if we’d have figured each other out a little sooner…”

He trailed off, opting for threading his fingers with Marco’s, rather than trying to say what didn't need to be said, anymore. There were a lot of things that would have been different, had he and Marco come to their senses earlier than they did, but there was nothing to be gained in dwelling on that fact, months afterward. Their life together was already more than either of them could have imagined it to be, already wonderful, even on their most hectic and stressful days.

They wanted each other, had each other, and loved each other.

In a sense, their lives since the day that they'd finally woven them together, were already too good to be true.


End file.
